


Fresh Static Snow

by nationalnobody



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, I guess idk how to tag, M/M, Mental Instability, Muke - Freeform, Sad/Lonely/Obsessive Luke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nationalnobody/pseuds/nationalnobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke is alone up until he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Static Snow

**Author's Note:**

> _this_ is why i shouldn't be allowed to write at 5am.  
>  title taken from Fresh Static Snow by Porter Robinson.
> 
> Alternatively named: Me, You & My Medication

He is alone. It is the 6th of July and he is alone. There are tears on his pillow and spilt coffee on his floor and there is a note by the bedside table that he cannot bear to look at anymore.

_Listen to me, listen to me, **listen to me;** I can't do this anymore. It's no longer youandI, it's just you, me and your medication. I want to stay, believe me I do but it's become too much, much too soon. We were only two months in with nothing to give and I know I said I felt a connection but now there seems to be white-noise every time I think of you. Static, like this relationship. Unmoving - But I'm taking this step, being the variable, I am moving on. _

_And so should you._

* * *

It is the 19th of September and his loneliness is fading in and out of focus. It clears, that day, when a boy clad in black skinny jeans and a worn smile worms his way into his life. 

The boy, Michael, is unlike any other. He does not try to provide him with false promises of a greater life but instead he tells him that there is  _something_  out there for him. That he is not sure  _what_  it is but there is something and there will always  _be_  something for him and for everyone on this Earth.

Luke does not,  _cannot_ , believe him at first; there is nothing for him now, there will be nothing for him then. He recalls his mother say in a distant memory with a voice he has not heard in years:

_Do not try to be the tide if you cannot bear the weight of the moon._

And though Luke thinks it is poorly thought out and carelessly worded, he finds sense in it - he finds comfort in it. And though he most always listens to his mother's words, this time he listens to Michael's. 

_'It is okay to be sad. It is okay to angry. It is okay to be you.'_

He is submerged in his self like a tipped glass under water, ripples of thought occasionally escaping like bubbles from the walls of his mind. Sometimes, those thoughts contain many  _Michael's_ followed bycurses and  _Iloveyousomuchithurts._

He will never tell Michael this of course, he does not know where they stand, but Michael has been living with him for about three months and in the span of these three months Michael has kissed Luke once on the corner of his mouth, two times on the left cheek, five times on the right cheek and eleven times on the forehead and he thinks that surely it must mean  _something_  then.

It means nothing.

* * *

It is the 28th of December and it is the first time he finds himself leaving the house in months. He is stumbling on his feet and passersby deem him drunk even though it is three in the afternoon in a town where drinking is not indulged in too excessively nor too often.

He is a drunk nonetheless.

When he reaches the instrument shop Michael works at, he does not believe his eyes. Maybe the sunlight is too much for him, maybe he has gotten the wrong store.

But no. No, the address scrawled on the paper is by Michael's hand and Luke suddenly finds himself wishing he  _was_ drunk because then at least he would forget this come morning.

There is a woman and Michael - kissing. Michael's hand is in her hair,  _caressing_ , and then Luke is dry-heaving on the pavement because  _how many times had those hands been in his own hair and how many times had Michael come home from doing this to doing that?_

His stomach gives nothing,  _selfish_ , not even bile. 

There is movement, there is noise. He looks up from the ground and locks eyes with a stranger, "Are you okay?"

_I am not._

A slight cough and a burnt out smile, "Yes. I just feel sick." He bites back the  _like always_ that burns at the back of his throat.

"Do you need help?" The stranger asks, eyes downcast.

 _No! No, I do not need your help or anyone else's help!_ He screams - the words do not pass his lips. The stranger hovers and then Luke hears  _his_ voice andhe thinks that  _no, this is not fair._

"Luke! Shit, are you okay?" His voice is panicked, it is almost laughable.

Pale fingers reach for him and he flinches, wrenching out a  _do_   _not touch me_ from the bottom of his throat because now that is all he has.

_I love you, I love you, I love youIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-_

He stands with wobbly knees and makes a mad dash for the house. Why did he ever leave? How will he ever forget? How  _can_  he forget this burning ache in his chest and this bitter taste in his mouth?

He contemplates drowning himself in his medication; take a few extra pills with a bottle of gin – simple. He refrains, it makes him think of his mother and he cannot have that. He cannot. He must bear it. He has chosen to be the tide so he must bear it.

* * *

It is the 30th of December and he is alone, again. Michael has yet to come home, when will he come home?

_Please come home._

It is a quarter to seven when he hears the door open and sees Michael walk in, "Luke?"

Hidden behind the pantry door, he does not answer.

"Luke? You here?" 

Again, he does not answer. His hands are shaking and he wonders how he will do this. He clasps  _it_  tighter and lets out a tentative, "Yeah?" He can hear Michael sigh in relief.

He walks out of the pantry and into the kitchen, Michael is standing next to the dining table and oddly, Luke is reminded of the first meal they had together - instant noodles.

"Hey..." Michael almost whispers. Luke remains quiet, thankful that Michael has not yet  _noticed_. "What happened? I gave you some time to cool off because I wasn't sure what was going on but yeah...I-Listen to me,"

Luke has stopped, become  _static,_  his brain is screaming and white has settled over  _everything_  like a sheet of snow.

" _Please do not leave, please do not leave, pleasedonotleave, pleasedonotleaveplease-"_ A frantic mantra. 

Time stands still when he rushes forward and throws his arms around Michael,  _clutching._

_Grasping._

_Latching._

_And then he is plunging._

_Plunging and twisting and burying the knife, that was clasped in his hands, to the very hilt deep within the right side of Michael's ivory flesh._

He repeats. This time on the left. Michael is wailing and writhing beneath his molten touch, "Lu-Luke?! STOP! WH-WHAT ARE YOU-ST- _STOP-_ "

But he cannot. If he does, Michael will go. They will  _move._ He cannot afford that.

He does not realise he is still mumbling  _please do not leave_ under his breath until Michael is sputtering, coughing up blood, and straining to get his voice working.

He is petting Michael's hair softly (the hair becoming matted with liquid garnet) softer than how Michael's fingers ran through that girl's hair, when Michael chokes out, "I was-wasn't...pla-planning on-on... _leaving."_ And then his eyes are just not his own anymore, green seas turning dark like the blood on the linoleum.

There is a pause, he is _not_ the tide. Luke drops the knife, it clatters to the floor and crying, so does he.

* * *

He is not alone. It is the 9th of February, the next year, and he is not alone. He has Michael. His house smells  _nice_ , it smells like Michael who is sitting at the dining room table slumped over.

"Hey Mikey..." He greets with a smile. Like normal, he gets nothing in return but he is okay with that.

"It is okay to be you." He whispers as he runs his fingers through Michael's red locks, nails catching onto a piece of his scalp. He tugs away sharply, dusting off the skin that's been pulled away with his movements. 

The alarm on his phone goes off, he needs to take his pills.

He walks over to the cupboard to retrieve them but there are none left. There have been none since the 29th of December. He decides he will go buy them tomorrow, like he has told himself every day since the 30th of December.

He makes his way back over to Michael, eyes tearing up and he tells himself it is because he is upset but he knows it is actually the smell. He sits on the chair beside Michael; lovely little Michael who will never leave his side again. Fingers tracing the curve of Michael's cold hollowed out cheek, he grins - soft yet manic.

"How about noodles for dinner, Mikey? How does that sound?"


End file.
